In ocean's deep, a metal bird hath sunk,
With brave souls lost, their tales as yet untold.
Yet searchers, bold, in sea-depths steeply drunk,
Find remnants of this scene of sorrow, cold.

When aid to distant hearts can flow no more,
Unless the council casts their golden boon.
Twill be a quiet winter for the poor,
If U.S. hands hold not the giver's spoon.

The loom of Layoff spins its thread so grim,
For Spotify, a foe no shield can thwart.
With numbers thinned, the future seems so dim,
Profit's cruel ax hath struck a grievous part.

by Æthelred the Skald

a centaur